


rivers of blood, the dark woods (singing with all my skin and bone)

by possibilist



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 10:40:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3647238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/possibilist/pseuds/possibilist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“People have tried to cut you in half.”</p>
<p>There are tears brimming in her eyes and you are far too tired to begin to know what this means, so you scoot forward and kiss her very softly. “They have certainly not succeeded in such an endeavor, Clarke,” you say, and, despite everything, she laughs.</p>
<p>or: five times clarke & lexa talk about her scars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	rivers of blood, the dark woods (singing with all my skin and bone)

**Author's Note:**

> i don't ever want to glorify scars or condemn scars because scars just Are so please don't take this as romanticization of anything, but i just think lexa would have many scars with plenty of sad small lexa stories to go with them. but yknow she's also here & clarke loves her, so there's that too
> 
> this fits in with 'there is no sweeter innocence' as far as headcanons go.

**rivers of blood, the dark woods (singing with all my skin and bone)**  
.  
_here is a map with your name as a capital, here is an arrow to prove a point: we laugh and it pits the world against us, we laugh, and we’ve got nothing left to lose, and our hearts turn red, and the river rises like a barn on fire. i came to tell you, we’ll swim in the water, we’ll swim like something sparkling underneath the waves._  
—richard siken, ‘saying your names’

//

 

1

 

After four weeks in Polis, at night in bed with Clarke, lying close enough that you can feel how warm she is, how undeniably alive, but not close enough to get anywhere near the give of her body with your own—she reaches out and touches your hand.

You don’t turn toward her, and you don’t let your breath falter. She has not touched you in a month, and her eyes are still full of exhaustion—not hatred; not fury; not sadness—when she looks at you. She traces down your palm.

“A burn scar,” she says, very quietly. It is warm in your quarters, but in some part of your mind you think maybe you could spot the crystals of her breath freeze up above your faces like on cold winter mornings, the way her words break.

“Yes,” you answer.

She doesn’t let go of your hand, doesn’t move at all. “What happened?”

No one has ever actually asked you about your scars; they are merely markers of proud life in your culture, and the only person you have ever let see you was Costia, and she knew all of them.

“I was testing to be Commander,” you say. “It is a long and grueling process, and I was in the forest trying to complete the last physical portion.”

Clarke swallows— _How are your leaders chosen_?

“They shot flaming arrows at me,” you say with as little emotion as possible; your ways are harsh sometimes, sure, but your people have survived, _are_ surviving. You don’t remember too much of the physical testing, really, just that you narrowly avoided a spear through your gut and that it started to rain after your hand lit on fire. You were very small, and you remember being sure you were going to die. You continue, “I managed to make it past all but one, which was going to hit me in the face. So I put my hand up.”

Clarke grips your hand tight just once, then loosens her fingers. “How old were you?” she asks after a while.

“Almost ten,” you say.

She’s quiet for a long time, and you think maybe she’s fallen asleep, but then her breath catches and she whispers, “Does it still hurt?”

“Yes,” you say, and you remember seeing the blackened tendons and ligaments and muscle and bone of your small hand once you passed your test; you remember Costia’s mother apologizing when she cleaned it, smoothing your curls back when you screamed. You remember how they took skin from your thigh and you had to stay as still as possible so it would graft onto your hand. You remember how long it had taken to heal. 

Clarke doesn’t let go.

You say, “But only sometimes.”

 

//

 

2

 

Clarke wakes you up by kissing along the scar that runs along one of your shoulder blades, one that runs beneath one of your tattoos.

You’re pretty sure it’s still the middle of the night, because it’s not yet dawn, but you coax yourself to stay awake anyway.

Clarke sighs and then lies down next to you again. 

She reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “You have so many,” she says very quietly.

“I do,” you say.

“People have tried to cut you in half.”

There are tears brimming in her eyes and you are far too tired to begin to know what this means, so you scoot forward and kiss her very softly. “They have certainly not succeeded in such an endeavor, Clarke,” you say, and, despite everything, she laughs.

 

//

 

3

 

It is peacetime, but you still have skirmishes to attend to; you come back from one and you’re bleeding from what you’re pretty sure is a cut through your eyebrow. You walk into the medical building, and you shake your head when someone tries to get you into a bed right away: you are the commander, and you must make sure your people are taken care of before you allow it for yourself.

They are, though, and after you’ve checked on all of your injured warriors personally—everyone will be just fine—you allow someone to lead you to a small room with a bed and a chair.

Clarke walks in a few minutes later, and she rolls her eyes at you. “Lexa,” she says, “please take your armor off and sit down on the bed.”

You stare at her for a moment, because you don’t think you’re hurt and this is all a little ridiculous, but then her face softens and she bends down very quickly to press a kiss against your mouth. 

“I’m glad you’re back,” she whispers before straightening up and then glaring at you. “Now, _please_ , take off your armor and sit down so I can make sure you live to fight another day, _Commander_.”

You allow yourself a small laugh and stand, unbuckle your armor. She helps you slip it over your shoulders and kisses the back of your neck once before you sit down on the bed. 

“Are you hurt anywhere?” she asks.

“No.”

She raises a brow. “You do realize that I am going to see you naked later, so it’s more convenient for both of us if you’re truthful now.”

“I am fine, Clarke,” you say softly, squeeze her hand.

She takes a deep breath and says, “Okay,” and then runs a hand through your unruly hair and tips your head back a little. “You do need a few stitches though, for the cut through your brow.”

You nod and she busies herself with readying a few supplies. She is more beautiful now, after a year spent between Camp Jaha with her people and Polis with you, than she has ever been, you think, and you watch her silently. She hums a little, her hands steady, and when she turns around she smiles a little helplessly at how you’re looking at her.

“You are lovely,” you say.

She blushes a little, her pale skin shading pink, and she tucks a blonde curl behind her ear before saying, “That’s not getting you out of stitches. You’ll have a scar anyway, in case you’re worried about looking tough.”

You laugh a little and stay perfectly still while she brings the edges of your cut together with small, precise movements. She bends down to kiss the stitches after she’s done, and you wrap your arms around her when she stands back up. You rest your head on her stomach for a few minutes, and she stands still and strong, rubs your back a little bit.

Neither of you say anything—is there anything to say about forgiveness or the way of nature and grace, of second loves and of something redeemable after loss?

You kiss just above her diaphragm once and then back up and she helps you stand. 

“I have a brief meeting,” you say, “but then I will be home.”

She nods. “I’ll be there.”

As you walk toward your quarters after your short debriefing with your generals, it hits you that when you said _home,_ you meant time with Clarke, not an actual place.

She’s there when you arrive, and she kisses you like you have many, many more battles to win.

You suppose you do.

 

//

 

4

 

Negotiations with the Sky People are always slightly strained, even after two years, but Clarke’s people respect her too much to do anything to hurt you. Today you’ve been invited—dragged, by Clarke, is a more accurate description—to a celebration of a strange holiday called Unity Day, but it is late summer and a beautiful, golden day, and you will always be behind celebrating peace.

Camp Jaha has grown substantially since it was founded, partially in thanks to some of your people you have sent to aid in their building. Today there are colorful streamers decorating some of the trees, laughing children, the smell of food cooking. 

Clarke gives her friends and her mother hugs; you have dealt with them on a number of occasions, but mainly the purposes have been for furthered treaties and general political and diplomatic meetings, not as Clarke’s, as she calls it, girlfriend—which, apparently, according to Sky People terms, you are.

Raven is your favorite of her friends, because Raven had had a substantial amount of whiskey the last time you were here at a dinner after a meeting where the definition of how technology and exchange of ideas should be viewed as a commodity ensued—you and Raven had, in fact agreed—and Raven had walked up to you and punched you, _hard_ , in the eye.

You had ended up talking and _laughing_ when she told you that you weren’t even but that it was a start, and you can see why Clarke is so fond of her. You’re hoping to have her spend some time in Polis and incorporate some more communications technology into your city soon.

Today Clarke’s friends lead her down—laughing as always—to the small river by camp. You follow along when she grins at you and waves for you to come with them; you feel awkward as you walk behind them with Clarke’s mother at your side.

You don’t talk to each other; you aren’t actually sure if Abby hates you or not, and, if she does, _why_ , but you have been an orphan since you were four, so you would never actually try to start a fight with Clarke’s mother, someone she legitimately loves very much.

Clarke and her friends start taking off their clothes when they get near the river, and Clarke still can’t swim too well, so you feel a little anxious. She walks up to you and kisses you softly and says, “Come on, have a little fun, Commander Lexa.”

You don’t smile but you do nod and start to undress. They’re all in shorts and tank tops, so you strip down to your clothing of the same sort. There are many people already swimming, and no one gives you a second glance, really. When you start to wade into the water, Raven spots you and splashes you, and you splutter for a moment before Clarke tackles you and drags you in.

You laugh, and all of Clarke’s friends look shocked for a moment, but then you reach over and dunk Clarke’s head in the water, and they seem to sort of accept you.

After a while, you climb out—soaked and _happy_ , which is very rare for you—and sit down on a blanket. Clarke goes to get some drinks and you’re left stretched out next to Abby, who stares at your body. You meet her gaze after a few seconds, and neither of you say anything; you have many tattoos and even more scars, so different from Clarke’s pale, untouched skin; you are Different, in her eyes, but then Clarke comes back and hands you and her mother some kind of alcoholic thing, and she kisses the top of your head before she sits down.

She pats the new, still-pink scar on the top of your thigh—a few inches long; you’d gotten caught in training—and then looks up at Abby. “I treated this one myself,” she says. “Look how cleanly it healed.”

Abby looks at the two of your and her eyes soften. A small smile tugs at her mouth. “You did a wonderful job, Clarke,” she says.

Clarke beams.

 

//

 

5

 

It has been five years, and you feel so old. Clarke finds you an hour after you left your quarters at sunset, and she sets down a small bouquet of flowers next to the larger one you’d brought before sinking to the ground next to you.

She doesn’t say anything, and she doesn’t do anything but put out her hand palm up. You wait a few moments before taking it.

“She would’ve loved you,” you say very quietly. 

Clarke’s smile is small and shy.

“In fact, you probably would have met and fallen in love with one another and run off together and left me behind.”

Clarke lets out an unexpectedly loud laugh at that. “You are kind of serious sometimes.”

You grin and kiss her shoulder. 

“Lexa?”

“Yes?”

“I am sorry, for what happened with Costia. I’m not sorry I get to love you now,” she says, “but I am so sorry.”

There are tears pricking at your eyes and you bring your weaved fingers up to your lips, kiss the top of Clarke’s hand. “Thank you.”

She nods. “And, Lexa?”

“Yes?”

“You are so incredibly lovable.”

You allow yourself a few tears after that, and she sits with you for another hour, under the trees, in the field of flowers where you had scattered Costia’s ashes and placed a small headstone. Clarke is silent and so strong and so beautiful next to you, and you feel, so strangely, so logically, _lucky_.

After a while you stand and tug her up with you, walk back to your quarters. 

Clarke quietly takes your clothes off and she kisses you so gently you ache.

She hovers above you and you say, “I am very glad you fell from the sky.”

She smiles. “I am too.”

She kisses you again. Before she had come to sit with you earlier, she had apparently been sketching, because there is charcoal all over her hands. She marks your body—over scars and tattoos and all of the vestiges of peace your skin still speaks to—with her hands; her hands can make worlds, and you have never quite known a balm as powerful as her fingerprints etching themselves against you, late into the night, the glimmer of stars.

**Author's Note:**

> come chill (pls) @ possibilistfanfiction on tumblr if you want


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